Then with a sudden change of subject she said, ‘Have you children, Mrs McQuinn?’
That was a sore point; although it was possible, considering that I was in my mid thirties, that any children might be gone from home, living their own lives.
I shook my head. ‘Alas, I had a child in Arizona, a baby son called Daniel…’ I could still feel the tears rising; would this wound ever heal? ‘But he took a fever and died there.’
She clasped her hands together, genuinely upset. ‘How dreadful, how truly dreadful.’ And no doubt aware of my distress, she touched my hand briefly. ‘So sad to have had a child and to have lost it.’
Looking towards the window, she shook her head and said in almost a whisper, ‘I have not even had the joy of those brief months. Not even days – or hours – of motherhood. Our marriage after four years is still childless. We have yearned and hoped, but no blessing of a son has come our way.’
She paused, biting her lip, and put down the cup. ‘So sad. This was my husband’s second marriage. His first wife died of scarlet fever. There were no children there either.’ She looked up at me. ‘You might imagine how he had hoped that he would be more fortunate – second time lucky.’
My imagination was up to her expectations although I said not one word, knowing all too well the disastrous influence of a childless union – even in the happiest of marriages – on the man who possessed everything and had almost the whole world at his fingertips but could not beget a living child. Kings had suffered this affliction; queens had lost their heads for their inability to provide an heir.
‘A son, a son!’ That was the cry as the whole world moved to the tune of a dynasty that must survive, could only survive with a male heir, and wars, the need for soldiers to fight for their country, increased this frantic yearning, although Scotland had solved this particular problem by a law which allowed a daughter to inherit.
As I was wondering what to say to break the silence that this somewhat intimate confession had imposed upon us, she smiled, and it was like clouds clearing from the sun.
‘I had another purpose for my visit. I observed posters advertising a visit from the circus. I wonder if you would care to accompany me?’
I was delighted to accept and on her walk with Rufus later that week she called in to tell me that she had obtained tickets for the following day.
‘If that is convenient,’ she said anxiously. Assuring her that it was so, she smiled. ‘Excellent. They are agreeable seats and under cover too, should the weather be inclement.’
And, although I was within walking distance of the arena, she insisted that the carriage would come for me at six o’clock.
She departed soon afterwards leaving me wondering about this invitation. From Elma’s class in Edinburgh society two ladies unescorted was unusual for an evening entertainment. Why? A ‘thank you’ for Thane’s rescue and the use of the umbrella or – uncharitable thought – perhaps her husband had another engagement, and she did not wish to go alone or accompanied by a personal maid or a male relative.
I shook my head, mine not to reason why but to accept gratefully; a second visit to the circus in one year was an opportunity not to be missed.
Walking with Thane later I considered her two visits and my own omissions at those meetings. Why had I not told her that I was a lady investigator? And why, in our tour of the house, when she was obviously so enthralled by the Tower’s past, had I hesitated about showing her the secret room?
I expect all ancient towers built in times of religious and political persecutions had them as places of refuge. Jack and I came upon it by accident, carrying a piece of furniture upstairs, when he stumbled against the panelling which suddenly swung open.
We stared into a dark room and Jack whispered in awed tones, ‘What have we here? I must have pressed a hidden spring.’
The room was illuminated by a narrow slit of a window which gave enough light to reveal an ancient padded chair, its tapestry lost under generations of cobwebs, a small table and a palliasse on the floor, its bedding having provided nests for generations of mice. A uniform cape of the fashion worn in Jacobite times hung on a nail.
I pointed to it. ‘Doesn’t look as if it has been worn recently.’
‘Aye, and the last owner must have left in a hurry,’ said Jack sweeping aside the cobwebs on the table. A map yellowed with age emerged. Holding the candle aloft we peered at it.
Blowing away the dust, Jack said, ‘Looks like the drawing of a battle line-up. In fact, this is almost certainly the Battle of Prestonpans, where you will remember there was a battle in 1745. Prince Charlie and his troops were camped outside here on Arthur’s Seat and in Duddingston.’
‘Of course. There’s still a house where he stayed.’
‘And presumably a soldier, either one of his men or one of the Hanoverians, we’ll never know which, took shelter in this room.’
He thought for a moment. ‘A slice of the past indeed. What shall we do – open it to the public?’
I shivered. ‘Leave it to history.’
Jack grinned. ‘Glad you think so. Gives me the creeps.’
And so it was. I doubted if anyone had entered that room since its last occupant: that unknown soldier’s hasty exit without his cloak. I was certain Sir Hedley Marsh, who left the Tower to Vince, never knew of its existence, otherwise he would have filled it with his ever multiplying population of cats.
We went outside. Looking upwards the room’s narrow window was completely invisible, just part of an ivy-covered wall. Just part of the unwritten history of the mystery of Solomon’s Tower.
CHAPTER FIVE
The circus was indeed something to look forward to and this was to be even better than my last visit in the spring. Easter and Whitsun were popular, coinciding with workers’ holidays. One of my recent clients had promised to take her two small children but had unhappily succumbed to a severe chill, and as their nanny was unavailable that day (she was a guest at a family wedding), she asked me, as a special favour, if I would oblige. Even without the free ticket and the fee she insisted that I accept for my time, I would have been pleased to go to the circus, and the delight of those two small children would have been ample reward.
However, with no wish to disappoint Elma, I had not mentioned that previous occasion and, considering the lady whose guest I was to be, I imagined and hoped for a slightly better seat than the scramble which had meant arriving early or being confined to the back rows, elevated but requiring a lot of neck stretching to get a good view. And that had had to go to the smallest of my client’s children, perched on my knee.
As Elma’s private carriage was admitted by a separate entrance beyond the main gate, where queues formed early for the best seats, I began to feel optimistic for one of those reserved nearer the ringside. These were available for Edinburgh’s upper income bracket and well beyond my means or, I imagined, those of the lady whose children I had previously escorted.
I certainly did not expect to be escorted by a uniformed attendant onto the raised dais, with its velvet chairs, designated as the royal enclosure.
The brass band made conversation quite impossible, so I sat back and prepared to enjoy this evening at the circus as the prelude to what promised to be a lasting friendship.
Perhaps influenced by that Balmoral visit, there was a highly Scottish influence to Hengel’s Circus, with its curious newspaper advertisement: ‘Like a good Turkish carpet, it takes a lot of beating’.
Tonight there was an abundance of tartan everywhere. Miss Bonnie Jean, attired in a diminutive Scottish costume, performed some heart-stopping acrobatics on an almost invisible high wire.
‘Note the absence of a safety net, see how this brave Highland lassie courts death at every performance,’ announced the richly moustached ringmaster, splendid in shiny top hat, boots and scarlet coat.
There were a bewildering number of acts; the arena was never empty. One following fast upon the heels of the other, and in any interval needed
for preparation, a fire-eater, juggler or a sword dancer in Highland costume would appear.
The Mac Brothers on their trapeze ‘rescued’ Miss Bonnie Jean and swung happily back and forth across the roof of the tent, while far below, to wild applause, the well-publicised equestrienne Miss Adela entered the ring on a magnificent white horse. She was accompanied by a couple of tartan-bowed tiny fox terriers, barking furiously as they jumped up beside their mistress and, as other horses joined the ring, leaping from one to the other in perfect unison.
This performance, known as the jockey act, was also shared with the clowns, or rather appeared to be annoyingly interrupted by them as they defied death under the horses’ hooves by leaping up behind Miss Adela or falling about very clumsily in front of the other horses. Their timing was perfect, the act well and oft rehearsed so there was never any real danger, despite the horrified screams of the audience as one clown seemed to disappear under the thundering hooves but managed to roll away in the nick of time.
For me, it brought irresistibly to mind lines from Wordsworth’s poem:
‘…chattering monkeys dangling from their poles…
With those that stretch the neck and strain the eyes
And crack the voice in rivalship, the crowd
Inviting, with buffoons against buffoons
Grimacing, writhing, screaming…’
I remembered well from that spring performance how Joey had led his fellow clowns in death-defying wild leaps from horse to horse, frequently losing his balance to shrieks of terror from the audience, but it was all part of the act. Tonight it was different. He appeared as ever on stilts, and made a great fool of himself, falling to the ground, lying there breathless, revived by buckets of water from his fellow clowns, but I wondered as he got to his feet and looked around dazed whether that unsteadiness was also in the act.
Joey certainly seemed less agile than he had been at the spring performance. I wondered had he been ill; being thinner made him look taller. No longer seated high at the back of the tent, I was now near enough to observe him closely and I felt concern and pity for the clown with his white face, his painted melancholy tears, sad eyes and huge red mouth.
Strangely enough, perhaps my concern reached him amid all the shouts and cries and applause, for several times I felt he was looking directly at me, as if our eyes met and held for a moment.
It was rather unnerving and embarrassing too, and I was glad when the scene changed and a tremor of expectation went around the audience as the animal cages were wheeled in to the accompaniment of roars and the smell of the jungle.
To a roll of drums Fernando the Fearless, the bravest man in the whole world (as was advertised), cracked his whip fiercely to maintain order among the six leopards, which obligingly leapt up onto the painted stools. This was not without a show of protest, but they cautiously regarded the leopard skin in which Fernando was attired, a stern reminder perhaps of what might be their fate if they did not do as they were told.
At last they slunk out, quelled and snarling effectively. Another roll of drums and their place was taken by the lion, Leo, king of the jungle, who suggested he might be rather more trouble than the leopards, as he must have been ten times heavier than his tamer – almost diminutive by comparison.
Fernando approached this new subject thoughtfully, armed with more caution than he had for the snarling leopards. In addition to the whip, he brandished a kitchen chair, to which Leo responded with an angry-seeming paw.
All visible things considered, I didn’t really fancy Fernando’s chances if he thrust his head into the great beast’s mouth, my thoughts echoed by the audience’s silence imposed at the ringmaster’s urgent appeal concerning this dangerous action.
Although I was certain from my excellent vantage point that the head never really went between the lion’s jaws, it was accomplished with all possible speed and dexterity.
A sigh of relief and ready applause greeted his triumphant bow, and the clowns once more took over the ring. As he followed the cages out so jauntily, I thought of the future, had he failed. Many animal tamers who were supremely confident lost their nerve and their lives by a piece of momentary mistiming, mauled by a watchful lion or tiger who, detecting some faint uneasiness, the smell of fear or lack of concentration, seized the long-awaited opportunity and pounced.
If tamers did not die as a result of being attacked, they frequently lost an arm or a leg and would never enter a wild animal’s cage again. I wondered whilst looking at Joey, who seemed a shadow of his former self, what became of circus performers who were injured. Not only animal tamers who had made a wrong move and paid the ultimate price, but also those other circus performers who sustained terrible injuries by falling from the high wire, or clowns who mistimed leaping under the horses’ hooves or those, like Joey, whose altered appearance suggested an accident or recent illness.
A chat with the ringmaster would have doubtlessly revealed that the lions were toothless and the leopards well fed before the acts began, but what of the humans? The future of the maimed, too ill or injured was a sobering thought behind all the grandeur, the applause, the music. As for those who survived but grew too old to perform, what of them?
During the interval the clowns came and talked to the children in the audience, distributing sweets and balloons. Joey, perhaps as King of Clowns, too grand for such tomfoolery, was staring in our direction. Perhaps he was interested in the occupants of the royal enclosure, or was it Elma in particular – or myself? Whichever one of us, the effect of this attention from a perfect stranger was disquieting.
That led me to consider what they were like with the paint and wigs removed. Did they behave like everyday men when the show ended: men with wives, children and dependents? As for their jokes, the crazy gags, the horseplay and silly tricks, were they put in a trunk with the costumes until the next performance? Were they quiet and unassuming, reading the daily papers, paying the rent and concerned for domestic matters and their children’s futures?
And with that curious awareness of being watched I turned, and, just behind me, saw a face from the recent past.
Jack Macmerry. Now, by his uniform, Inspector Jack Macmerry. He raised a hand in greeting.
Perhaps, I thought, it was he who had been the focus of Joey’s attention. As the performance ended, the clowns gathered together in the ring, in what looked like a meeting. They looked serious, heads together, and I wondered what they were discussing.
As we emerged from the tent there was Jack again, with a group of burly, tall men, obviously policemen. They were laughing – a night out at the circus clearly a blessed relief from solving crimes.
Leaving them, he hurried to my side and, bowing to Elma, he took my hand in a firm grip.
‘Good to see you again, Rose. It has been a long time.’
The look in his eyes and his wistful voice suggested that he might lean forward and kiss me, so turning hastily I introduced my companion. He bowed over her hand and, hearing his name called, he extracted himself and rejoined his waiting colleagues.
Waiting in the string of carriages trying to make their exit, I observed the shrouded sideshows of the funfair and resolved to make a daytime exploration of what excitement was on offer.
Perhaps concerned about my silence, or curious about that greeting from a policeman, Elma regarded me anxiously and she hoped I had not minded being on display. What a question!
And then she added casually, almost apologetically, that the reason for the royal enclosure was that she and Felix had been weekend guests at Balmoral Castle.
‘That was when we were living in London, in St James’s, and it was rather a tedious journey coming so far north. Travelling by train makes a considerable difference, of course, but it would have been much pleasanter had we then been settled in Edinburgh.’
Equally casual, I felt I should mention that my stepbrother Vincent Beaumarcher Laurie was junior physician to the royal household and also lived in St James.
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p; ‘How marvellous! Such a coincidence that we are friends and both have medical brothers.’ She laughed delightedly. ‘Wonder of wonder – it is indeed a very small world. And do you know I have actually met Dr Laurie? He took care, excellent care, of Felix when he fell and damaged his shoulder during the grouse shoot. A charming man and I gather he is well thought of, especially good with the royal children and grandchildren who, I am told in strict confidence, of course, can be very difficult.’
The carriage had emerged from the crowd and was heading along the road to Solomon’s Tower.
‘At long last! That seemed to take for ever,’ Elma said. And although we both smiled, I thought with pity of the hundreds who had no such good fortune and were wearily walking home, perhaps some miles away, in what was now one of Edinburgh’s steady downpours.
‘Do you often see your stepbrother?’ she asked.
Alas, a negative response; but the discovery of Vince was a bond indeed, and sitting in the luxury of that elegant carriage, I realised that I had never had a really close female friend. Not even in schooldays and, since my return to Edinburgh, although I had met several friendly-seeming ladies among my clients, our acquaintance was not of a lasting nature.
I soon learnt to accept that gratitude was not to be mistaken for friendship, and despite being close enough whilst I was sorting out their torrid affairs, the intimacy of knowing so much about them was unhappily a detriment rather than an advantage. Indeed, they seemed anxious afterwards to forget the whole unhappy episode, and the friendship I had often hoped was in the making was nipped in the bud.
I told myself the reason was that they were too busy with their own lives, but in my heart I knew it was a sop to my pride. Business was business. I had served my purpose and the account was now closed.
Thankfully I was not expected to do anything for Elma Rice. That was a relief. We shared the same sense of humour and she knew my dear Vince.
We were approaching Solomon’s Tower.
Quest for a Killer Page 3